


Collapse Into You

by sinfuldesire_archivist



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Established Relationship, Fluff, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-11-19
Updated: 2006-11-19
Packaged: 2018-09-03 06:50:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8701708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinfuldesire_archivist/pseuds/sinfuldesire_archivist
Summary: Six weeks after their sexual relationship begins, a hunt shakes things up. This is in my preseries 'verse and would be chronologically first, before "The Most Wonderful Time of the Year."





	

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the Sinful Desire archivists: this story was originally archived at [Sinful-Desire.org](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Sinful_Desire). To preserve the archive, we began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in November 2016. We e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [Sinful Desire collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/sinfuldesire/profile).

**Title:** Collapse Into You  
 **Author:** merepersiflage  
 **Pairings:** Sam/Dean  
 **Rating:** NC-17  
 **Category:** porn, angst, porn, fluff  
 **Word Count:** 4600  
 **Summary:** Six weeks after their sexual relationship begins, a hunt shakes things up. This is in my preseries ‘verse and would be chronologically first, before The Most Wonderful Time of the Year  
 **Warnings:** UNDERAGE incest, graphic m/m sex, language (Sam is five weeks shy of sixteen.)  
 **Disclaimer:** Yes  
 **Notes:** A very happy birthday to [ ](http://nina-nicky.livejournal.com/profile)[**nina_nicky**](http://nina-nicky.livejournal.com/). You give me incredibly insightful feedback on my stories, honey. I hope you enjoy your gift.  
  
  
  
  
Collapse Into You  
by merepersiflage  
  
The problem with being fifteen and hot for your big brother was that he was always around. Sam was pretty sure he’d spent the last six weeks perpetually hard. Not that he hadn’t spent a lot of time in an uncomfortable state before that because, hello, fifteen, but now getting it taken care of regularly in a holy-shit-that’s-good kind of way just made it worse when regularly turned into not so much.  
  
Like now.  
  
They’d been on the road for a week and there was no place, no time when they were out of Dad’s sight or hearing for more than five minutes. And then Dean had to go and rub his leg against his so that Sam really hated the fact that they always sat on the same side of the booth in a diner because just that touch made him feel like he’d pass out onto the sticky table as all the blood in his body roared into his dick.  
  
He must have made some kind of sound, or maybe it was the way he was biting his lip that made Dean shoot him a warning look. It really didn’t matter anyway. Dad was already thumbing through his book. The only way they would get his attention now is if one of them sprouted demon horns and started to curse in Latin.  
  
The waitress brought over a pot of coffee without needing to be told and Sam ordered a soda. He wondered if Dad would have noticed if he’d ordered a beer.  
  
Dean was watching Dad, the waitress was watching Dean, and Sam was trying to find a way to sit that didn’t remind him of the goddamned Eiffel Tower stuffed in his jeans.  
  
Dean’s leg rubbed up against his again, but he couldn’t tell from Dean’s face if his brother was deliberately being the biggest asshole in the world or honestly didn’t know what his leg was doing to him. The waitress brought his soda, and Dad turned a page in his journal. A ball of sweat rolled down his spine. He leaned against the cooler window glass.  
  
“Sick, Sammy?” Dad didn't look up.  
  
“No, sir.” Sam sat up again.  
  
Dean kicked his ankle. Sam rolled his eyes at him. Dean had more problems with his tone than Dad ever did.  
  
Dad sat up a little straighter, flipped back a page and then his expression got harder than usual.  
  
“Dean.”  
  
Excitement vibrated off his brother.  
  
“Code?”  
  
“Carmel corn.”  
  
“Look. I want salt lines tonight. And I want another ring around the door, outside.”  
  
Sam knew what was coming and Dean did, too. He could feel the tension in the leg pressed against his.  
  
“You’re staying with Sammy tonight. It’s too dangerous for more than one of us to be out there. This thing can pull a thought from your head, and I don’t want us shooting each other.”  
  
Sam was relieved, and not just for the reason in his pants. Dad was right. It was too dangerous, and Dean would never forgive himself if he hurt Dad by accident. But he could almost hear the arguments bubbling up in his brother.  
  
Dad went on. “You don’t open the door until you hear the code, and if I can’t cross that salt then you shoot me, silver bullet.”  
  
“Dad.”  
  
The arrival of the waitress to take their order put a halt to the shooting and salting parts of the conversation. Food. Yeah. Concentrate on food instead of the fact that he and Dean were going to be alone in the room tonight. And just like that the tent pole in his pants went from distracting to freaking painful.  
  
Dad slid out to go to the bathroom while they waited for their food.  
  
“Need me to pour that soda in your lap, Sammy?”  
  
Sam groaned. He wanted to pound his head against the table. “I don’t think it’s gonna help.”  
  
Dean laughed. “Might take the edge off.”  
  
“This is all your fault, you know.”  
  
“Me?” Dean tried, but he really could never get away with an innocent look.  
  
He rubbed his leg against him again.  
  
“Asshole.” Sam muttered.  
  
Dean’s grin gave up any pretense at innocence as he moved the hand that had been on his thigh onto Sam’s, his fingers just close enough to his dick to make him jerk his hips on the bench.  
  
“Cut it out.”  
  
Dean’s grin got wider as he wiggled his fingers, pulling his hand back just as the waitress set down their plates of food.  
  
 

* * *

  
  
Dad must have gone over his instructions at least five more times before helping Dean pour an extra thick salt circle outside the door as a hot wind kicked up at sundown. As soon as he locked the door behind Dad, checked the lock, checked and rechecked both the pistols loaded with silver bullets, leaving one in the chamber in each, Dean flopped onto the bed closest to the bathroom.   
  
Sam pretended not to look up from his history book. He hadn’t had time to tell any of his teachers he’d be out before Dad had tossed their stuff in the car for this hunt, but he figured if he did the next chapter in each of his books. he’d be all right and at least get points for effort.   
  
He twirled his pen around and tried to focus on the Industrial Revolution. Like they hadn’t covered this already a hundred times. He could probably answer all the chapter questions without even doing the reading.  
  
He wasn’t looking at Dean at all, but he could still see him cross his arms behind his head as he stretched out on the bed. The smirk on his brother’s face taunted him in his peripheral vision. If Dean thought he was going to go over there and beg to get off after the shitty teasing in the diner, he was nuts.  
  
Dean flipped through the channels on the TV, turning the volume up louder and louder. Sam pursed his lips and kept writing out the answers. He’d done his homework through worse.   
  
But not worse than this apparently as there a loud moan exploded from the TV. And another, deeper that had Sam's grip on his pen turn white-knuckled. From a purely academic perspective, Sam couldn’t understand why watching _other_ people have sex was supposed to be arousing. Subjectively, he was fifteen and even talking about sexually transmitted _diseases_ got him horny. Or sometimes, just breathing. Especially if Dean was breathing next to him.   
  
The moaning and panting on the TV, even with the cheesy soundtrack, was enough to make him lightheaded again. He tapped his pen hard against his notebook. “Do you mind?”  
  
“Nope. Not at all. Go right ahead.”  
  
He hissed as he walked awkwardly over to his bag to dig out his walkman. Dean wasn't going to win. But on the way back he caught sight of what was happening on the TV and froze. All he could see was some guy’s ass moving up and down, the muscles tightening and relaxing, hollows forming around his hips with the force of his thrusts. He wondered if that’s what Dean’s ass looked like when he was grinding against him, when he thrust and rubbed their dicks together until Sam was moaning and arching up like the girl under the guy.   
  
_Oh, shit._  
  
“Sammy?”  
  
His mouth was a little dry, but he thought he managed something like a “Huh?”  
  
“You’re blocking my view, dude.”  
  
Sam turned and threw himself on his brother with so much force he was surprised the bed didn’t collapse under them.   
  
“You’re such a freaking jerk.”  
  
Dean just laughed. “Wow, Sammy. Should I bother to undo your fly or you gonna just come in your pants?” He smirked as he reached down and cupped him.   
  
Sam couldn’t help a laugh and a gasp at the same time and almost choked. “Dick.”   
  
“Yes it is. High school’s really paying off for you, dude.”  
  
Sam rolled off and undid his jeans and shorts, shoving them off his hips, and wiggling until he could kick them off the end of the bed. Dean leaned up on one elbow, running his hand under Sam’s shirt. It tickled and tingled at the same time. He’d never done that before. His hand slipped around his ribs and did really nice things to the muscles along his back, before coming back around and sliding over one of Sam’s nipples.   
  
He sucked in his breath. That was definitely different. Dean lay back and stripped off his own clothes as Sam pulled his shirt over his head. He lay on his back, hoping Dean was going to touch his chest some more, but instead he leaned down and kissed him. The porno flick was still loud behind them and it made Sam a little embarrassed. He couldn’t help wondering if he really sounded like that, made those deep groans or if he sounded higher, like a girl.   
  
They’d only touched each other with all their clothes off twice before. It was just safer to do things around their clothes. The top of Dean’s chest was pressing on his hot and hard and that felt so good he wondered how it was going to feel when—and then Dean was on him, every inch, and it was like Dean was made out of some kind of electricity because it just crackled right against his skin, everywhere. Dean kissed him again, and Sam used his tongue the way Dean had shown him, soft at first and then stroking hard against his, chasing it back into his mouth.   
  
Skin, mouths, the wet kiss of Dean’s cock against his thigh, everything was too much. His dick hurt. He had to come _now_.   
  
Dean must have felt his body get all tense because he rolled off him, lying on his side and licking his jaw softly. “It’s all right, Sammy. Just relax.”   
  
“I can’t. I don’t want to.”  
  
Dean’s hand ran over his chest again, down his belly where it should have tickled, but the touch was hard enough, fingers and scratchy short nails that just made him slip more and more into that aching need to have something around his dick right the hell now, and then Dean’s hand was there. He tugged him gently, rocking the skin back and forth and it wasn’t enough, was just more torment.   
  
“A week, a fucking week, Dean, don’t do this, c’mon, man, Jesus, don’t be such a fucking bastard.”  
  
Dean licked his palm and brought it back down, his thumb smearing the drops that were spilling there. Sam closed his eyes. He was going to die. Fucking die. He couldn’t take this and he was going to fucking die, because it felt so good but he needed to come so much it hurt so bad.  
  
“Don’t die, dude. ‘Cause necrophilia? Really fucking gross.”   
  
And Sam hated that he couldn’t keep his mouth shut when Dean had his hands on him like this. Dean jacked him now, the hard friction he needed and Sam’s hand came down to grab Dean’s forearm because if he stopped now . . . and then he did, but stopped to pull gently on his balls and Sam made a sound that was way more pathetic than any coming from the TV and he begged. “Dean, please, I gotta, please.”  
  
Dean wrapped his hand around his cock again. The calloused edge of his index finger curled right under the head, twisting and rubbing as his hand worked his shaft. Dean’s mouth was hot and wet under his ear, and the second Sam felt his teeth there, the incredible pressure exploded inside him and he shot over his belly, spurting again and again as his hips bucked and his fingers dug into Dean’s arm so hard he knew he was going to leave bruises.   
  
He’d managed to shoot all the way up onto his fingers on Dean’s forearm, a long milky stream right across them both. He let his head drop back as Dean kept pulling on him gently, pulling out the last tight little shocks until he used his grip to knock Dean’s hand away.   
  
Dean rolled on him, his dick sliding through the wet lines on Sam’s belly before he settled into the groove above his hip and started rocking. Every once in awhile, Dean’s hip would slip over his sensitive dick, just enough to hurt a little, but it didn’t matter because Dean was kissing him as he rubbed against him, kissing him so hard and deep he couldn’t breathe. He grabbed onto Dean’s biceps and squeezed and Dean rocked harder, faster, his tongue sweeping into his mouth.   
  
Sam thought again of that image on the TV, Dean’s ass flexing and hollowing like that guy’s and he wished he could see it in a mirror, see how tight the muscles got when Dean arched his back and shot slippery heat across his belly. His mouth came off Sam’s as he panted and grunted.   
  
Sam watched the flush of blood roll down from Dean’s face into his neck and shoulders, turning his skin dark underneath the layer of freckles. He filled his lungs with the sex smell and for about five minutes, his life didn’t suck.   
  
 

* * * *

  
  
Dean knew he was going to have to get up and put something on before Dad got back, but his body just really wanted to sleep right now, which was why he was more than a little annoyed when Sam bounced off the bed and started pulling on his jeans.   
  
“What?”  
  
“I’m really thirsty. I’m going for a soda.” Sam dug into his pockets, coming up empty.   
  
“I’ve got some change in my jeans,” Dean said around a yawn.   
  
Sam lifted them up and rummaged through the pockets. “You want anything?”  
  
“Nah.”  
  
But as Sam was about to slip through the door he said, “I’ll take a root beer.”  
  
Since he wasn’t going to be able to fall asleep until Sam got back, he might as well get up. He switched the porn channel over to some movie and pulled his shorts on. He was reaching for his t-shirt when Sam came back in.  
  
“That was quick. Where’s the soda?”  
  
Sam stared at him without blinking for a minute, and then said, “The machine was broken.”  
  
Dean sat back down on the bed and watched Sam pace across the room. He hadn’t bothered with the button of his fly, just the zipper, and the jeans were sliding down his hips, flashing the deepest part of that groove that never failed to make Dean’s dick twitch. Maybe they could get in another round before Dad got back. It was pretty early and they’d have plenty of warning before he came through the door.   
  
“Man, I can’t wait.”  
  
“Huh?”  
  
“Two more years.” Sam stopped and looked down at his homework on the desk.   
  
“Oh, yeah. I thought you didn’t mind school so much, Sammy.”  
  
“Because I know it’s the only way I’m getting out of this fucking shithole of a life.”  
  
“What?”   
  
Aside from when Dean had his hand around his dick, Sam rarely swore. But the unexpected clench in his gut had nothing to do with Sam’s sudden burst of foul language.  
  
“Yeah. Two years and I’m done with all of it.”  
  
Dean could feel cold spill out from where Sam had just knifed him in the belly. He dragged some of that chill up into his voice. “Really?”  
  
“Yeah. You think my life is going to be this? Being afraid all the time, crappy motel rooms, jerking off with my fucking brother? Yeah, that’s a great life.”   
  
Sam looked at him, and Dean had never seen his changeable eyes look so dark. The cold spread through his whole body, the icy burn worse in his chest, but he never moved off the bed.   
  
“And the most fucked up thing is that you can’t even see how wrong this life is. You really think that I wouldn’t want something better?”  
  
His lungs were so full of ice he could hardly breathe.   
  
Sam was close to him now, close enough that he could actually see the hate in his brother’s eyes. “No, you wouldn’t. Because you just gotta have that fantasy of our happy loving family, don’t you?” Sam shook his head, a bitter smile curving his lips.   
  
The door opened and Sam came in with two sodas under his arm and his hand in a bag of pretzels. “What—”  
  
Dean dove off the bed and rolled for the pistol he’d put on the table near the door. Sam— _his_ Sam, thank god—just ripped his hand out of the bag and flung all the salty pretzels at his double. The fake Sam crackled and sizzled and winked out. The soda cans hit the carpet.   
  
Sam grabbed his pistol from the desk. “Where did it go? How did it get in?”  
  
“I don’t know.” Dean had his gun and was headed for the door.   
  
“I’m going. You don’t have any pants on, dude.”  
  
Sam cut in front of him as they looked out the door.   
  
“Wind must have blown the salt.” Sam pointed at the hole in the ring. The desert air blew right in at them. “Put some more down. I’ll check around.” He held the pistol in both hands.   
  
“Sam, wait.”  
  
But Sam had already disappeared around the side of the motel.   
  
“Son of a bitch.” He grabbed the salt canister and thickened the line, filled the hole. His heart was pounding in his throat and all he could think was _It wasn’t Sammy. He never said that stuff to me. Never looked at me like he hated me._   
  
He was about to go out into the night after Sam, pants or no, when he looked up to see Sam standing in front of him. He wasn’t carrying the pistol. Dean raised his own.   
  
“That’s not going to make it any better, you know.” Sam told him. “Where do you think I got all of that? Plucked it right out of your baby brother’s head. He hates you, you know.”  
  
Dean’s finger tightened on the trigger. He didn’t know if a silver bullet would work on a some Hopi spirit-thought form, but he was pretty sure emptying the clip would make him feel a hell of a lot better.  
  
Before he pulled the trigger, a hole of white fire opened up in the center of Sam’s chest, spilled out like it was running through his veins, lighting him up from the inside out. Dean could see the highway behind him as the light made him more and more transparent. He got brighter and brighter before bursting apart in the desert night.   
  
Sam was standing right just to the left of that empty space, his own pistol raised, but Dean hadn’t heard a shot.   
  
They lowered their guns.   
  
“Did you?” Sam asked.  
  
“No. Dad must have gotten whatever it was using to power itself.”   
  
They walked back into the room, and Dean couldn’t help but watch as Sam crossed the salt line. Sam caught the direction of his gaze and deliberately ran a bare foot along the line, rubbing a toe in it. Sam smiled as he did it, but Dean couldn’t return it. _He hates you, you know._  
  
Dean pulled the slide to pop the bullet out of the chamber before placing his pistol back near the door. He made it over to the bed and sat down, feeling a whole helluva lot older than twenty.   
  
Sam clicked the safety on his own gun and set it on top of his homework. The movie Dean had left on was still really loud. Dean thought about switching it off, but he just didn’t have the energy. Sam came over and grabbed the remote. He clicked off the TV.   
  
“Dean. I heard what it said. I don’t hate you. “  
  
“Yeah.”   
  
Sam bent and picked up the sodas he had dropped and handed off the root beer to Dean. Dean just put it on the beside table.   
  
“Dean, man, you know I don’t hate you.”  
  
“I said _yeah_ , Sam.”  
  
Sam sat on the Dad’s bed and tapped the lid before popping his can. He took a deep swallow, but kept watching Dean.   
  
Dean wanted to roll away, not let Sam see him, but fuck if he was going to shy away from his baby brother just because some Hopi spirit wanted to try Sam’s face on for size.   
  
“What did it say before?”  
  
“Nothing.”  
  
“Nothing. So you just believed it when it said I hated you because it didn’t say anything.”  
  
“What the hell, Sam? That didn’t even make any fucking sense.”  
  
He could feel Sam looking at him even if he couldn’t see his eyes. He popped his own soda open, forgetting to tap the can and got a hand full of foam. “Son of a bitch.” He shook his hand clean.   
  
“Did it say something about this?” Sam’s wave covered both them and the rumpled bed behind him.   
  
The boy was getting too goddamned smart. “I said it was nothing, Sam.” He put down the sticky can and headed for the shower, needing to erase the dried leftovers from their last _this_.   
  
Sam blocked his way and not only was he getting too fucking smart, he was too fucking tall for fifteen. Another couple inches and the bastard would pass him.   
  
“Did it make you think I don’t want to do this anymore?”  
  
They hadn’t kissed standing before, just in bed when Dad was gone, sometimes really late when they were sure he was asleep, but now Sam was kissing him, Sam’s lips trying to coax his open and yeah, standing up he barely had to tip his head down to meet him. Sam ran his hand up and over Dean’s chest, rough fingers too quick across his nipples, but enough to make his breath get faster. Sam’s other arm forced their hips together.   
  
Dean fought it for a minute. Fought that rush that made sense fly out of his head because all of his body knew was his Sammy. _His_.  
  
Sam pulled his mouth away. “Does it feel like I don’t want to do this?” He rubbed and bucked his hips against Dean’s until friction made it plain what they both wanted.   
  
But Sam was fifteen and any friction would do and this wasn’t going to answer everything that son of a bitch had put into his head. He tired to ignore the pull deep inside, the pull spreading out from his balls dragging him farther into the space where he didn’t know right or wrong, but just that Sam wanted him, wanted what Dean could give him.   
  
He didn’t have an answer for him, so he just reached for his head and pulled him back for a kiss. Sam kissed him like that alone would get them both off, kissed him like the desperate intensity of his lips and tongue could convince Dean that nothing that other Sam had said was true.  
  
And it was almost enough. He slid his hand behind Sam’s head and angled it so the pressure on his own neck eased and met the tight jerk of Sam’s hips with an measured roll. Sam leapt back with a cry of pain, and Dean remembered that when Sam’d gotten up, he’d just pulled his jeans on. With them sliding around unbuttoned, he bet the zipper had just caught something interesting.   
  
Dean tucked two fingers in the waistband of Sam’s jeans and tugged him toward the bathroom. “C’mon.”  
  
“Huh?”  
  
“C’mon, in the bathroom.”  
  
“Dean, what—”  
  
“Dad’ll be back soon. We won’t have time to clean up. Unless you don’t want to do something about this?” He cupped Sam through his jeans.   
  
“But what . . .”  
  
Sam waited behind at the bathroom door. Dean shucked his shorts. “Sammy. Shower.”  
  
Sam still didn’t seem to know what Dean meant. Realization hit him like a bat to the back of his head. Sammy was fifteen. The last time he’d been in a shower with anyone other than a locker room was Dean when he was six.   
  
“With me.”  
  
The blood rushed to Sam’s cheeks, staining them so dark, Dean wondered if he lost his wood. He glanced down. Nope. Sam was still very much with him.   
  
“Oh.” His hands seemed to have trouble with his zipper, so Dean turned around and got the shower running.   
  
He heard Sam squirming behind him. “Dean, I think—”  
  
Dean turned to see Sam still struggling with the zipper. At this rate, they’d be lucky to even get wet before Dad got back. “Dude, if you’re gonna go commando, you’ve got to be careful with the merchandise.” He held Sam’s dick out of the way and yanked down the zipper.   
  
Sam jumped. “I think you just ripped out half my hair there, man.” His eyes blinked rapidly.   
  
“It’ll grow back. So . . .?” He pointed at the shower.   
  
“Umm, yeah.” Sam stepped over the tub.   
  
Sam’s dick had wilted from the pain of the zipper disaster, but as soon as Dean pressed against him, pushed them both under the spray, he could feel it harden against his hip.   
  
Sam’s mouth aimed for his and caught his ear as Dean shifted around to grab the soap.   
  
“We gotta hurry, Sammy. Dad’ll be home soon.”   
  
Sam shook his head and sprayed them both.   
  
“Enough of that, Lassie.” Dean grabbed one of Sam’s hands and slicked it with soap before sudsing up his own. He dropped the bar and pressed Sam back into the wall. He made an unhappy-puppy whimper when his back hit the tiles that Dean swallowed with his mouth.   
  
He caught Sam’s soapy hand in his and brought it to where their dicks were now rubbing against each other, lacing their fingers so they could wrap around both of them together. Sam started jerking forward, and Dean grabbed his hip and pinned him back against the wall.   
  
Dean whispered against his mouth. “Like this Sammy.” And he rocked himself up, through the channel of their hands, against the stretch and heat of Sam’s dick on his.   
  
Sam caught on fast, sliding and rubbing against him, his mouth open and wet. Slick and rich and hot and wet, riding their hands and each other’s dicks, Sam following as he increased the pace. Pleasure slippery and thick on his tongue like butter and ice cream and frosting.   
  
Sam started those breathy moans that meant he was skimming right up to that edge. He pulled his mouth free and started panting against his lips, his words falling and rising like an invocation.   
  
“I don’t hate you, Dean. I couldn’t hate you, could never hate you, never, you’re all I’ve got, you’re—fuck.”   
  
The words spilling from Sam’s mouth were choking him, but he was such a twisted bastard he regretted the moment when that litany broke off, regretted it even more as Sam’s body went rigid, his hand tightening on their cocks until Dean thought he’d have to pry him off. He felt the splash of Sam’s come even through the heat of the water pouring over them, and began to push harder to the edge himself, releasing Sam’s hand to get a better grip on his dick. He jacked himself fast under the perfect glide of soap and water and come.   
  
Sam’s fingers found the head of his dick, still all slippery and wet and pressed into the slit and Dean almost swallowed his tongue to keep from screaming when he came so hard he saw purple spots behind his screwed shut lids. He sagged into Sammy, dragging air back into his lungs, shaking out the last pulses of pleasure against Sam’s skin warm wet skin.  
  
Sam said it again, his voice clearer. “That thing, it just wanted to get to you. I don’t hate you, Dean.”   
  
“I know, Sammy.” He lifted his head. Sam had slid down the wall and was looking up at him. He gave him one last kiss before turning away and washing the come off his hand and belly. “Me, too.”  
  


End file.
